Then something even more complicated happened.
Michael’s father had been struggling financially, and the family moved out of state shortly afterward.
By the time Michael’s memory returned enough for him to understand what had happened, years had passed.
He searched for me.
But my family had moved too.
He tried contacting old classmates.
Many had lost touch.
Eventually, he believed I had moved on.
He got married.
He had a daughter.
Then grandchildren.
But according to the girl, he never stopped thinking about me.
“He kept the boutonniere all these years,” she said.
I looked at the dried flower.
“Why did he send it now?”
She smiled sadly.
“Because he’s afraid he doesn’t have much time left.”
I felt tears running down my face.
“Can I see him?”
“Yes.”
The Reunion
The next morning, I drove to the nursing home.
I sat in my car for almost twenty minutes before going inside.
I was terrified.
What if he didn’t recognize me?
What if he had changed so much that I couldn’t recognize him?
What if forty-one years had turned our memories into something neither of us could understand?
Then I saw him.
Michael was sitting beside a window.
His hair was silver.
His face was thinner.
He had wrinkles around his eyes.
But when he looked up, I knew him.
Somehow, I knew.
His eyes widened.
He whispered my name.
“Sarah?”
I broke down.
I walked toward him.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then I placed the boutonniere on the table.
“You kept it.”
He looked at the flower.
“I promised.”
I laughed through my tears.
“You disappeared.”
“I know.”
“I waited.”
His face crumpled.
“I know.”
“How?”
He reached for my hand.
“I heard about you.”
I sat beside him.
“Why didn’t you come find me?”
“I tried.”
He told me about the accident.
About losing his memory.
About moving.
About years of searching.
Then he said something that made me cry again.
“I thought you had forgotten me.”
